Roses On My Table
by homesickpirate
Summary: Arthur is waiting for his date to come, and he's worried that he won't show up. But then, karma hits. And he ends up being carried to his bed with a concussion, by a certain frenchman. This day couldn't have gone any worse.


**I guess you could say this is AU, even though I wasnt really trying to make it that way. Either way, human names used... and yes, the end of the story is the end. There will be no more chapters. I felt that this story needed an 'incomplete' end. But, ah, I wont spoil it for you!**

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned Hetalia...**

Arthur paced in his living room, back and forth, back and forth. He felt the agitation rising up in his stomach, and tasted the bile on his lips. Shuddering, he leaned back on the wall behind him to take a few calming breaths, before walking into his kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. With shaking fingers he put the tea bag into the cup and waited for the water to boil. He couldn't handle this stress. He ran out of the kitchen and grabbed his iPhone, fumbling to unlock it. He stared at the blank message box, he had no texts. Quickly he jabbed his fingers into the screen, typing out a quick "hey, when are you going to be here?" (He totally did not do text speak, thank you)

Suddenly, thoughts began to race through his mind. What if he was being set up? What if this was a joke and his date wouldn't arrive. Arthur franticly tried to search for any reason for his date to not show up. What had he done? Besides be himself of course. He winced. Maybe they just hated him. And that was scary, because he knew that he wasn't the greatest person to be around, he had his faults, yes. What if they had decided that he wasn't worth it, that all of the arguments were too much, and they had made this one last fake date just to show Arthur that no one loved him?

Hearing the kettle whistle made him snap instantly into reality as he ran towards the kitchen, heedless of all dangers, just needing to turn it off and get his tea and _calm down—_BANG! His leg smashed into the big wooden wardrobe by his door sending needles of pain through his body, and he fell to the floor awkwardly, cracking his head on the floor.

"Ungh" he moaned, seeing bursts of light race across his closed eyelids, and groping down to feel his leg, which was swollen. He fell back, letting his head rest on the wall trying to collect his jumbled thoughts and wait for the pain to die down, the whistling kettle a forgotten nuisance.

Ding Dong! His doorbell rang. He groaned again, and would have laughed at the irony of the situation. He, in his worry about his date not coming, injured himself right as his date arrived. That was just so predictable of his life, he almost began to cry. His doorbell rang again

"Open up Arthur! Merdre, where are you?" He heard loud knocks on his door, and yelled, if only to stop his growing migraine.

"Come in, door's open". He relaxed himself again, trying to will with shuddering breaths his headache away. He heard the sound of the knob turning, the soft leather footprints enter quiet, and then, ah! There it was, the predicted gasp.

"Arthur! What happened?" The worried voice rang out much too loud in his head. He tried to remember who this person was. Was this his date, the voice was familiar but with his head banging so loudly in his ears he couldn't place it. Whoever it was, they were just too noisy and that made him angry.

"Belt up, you twat," he slurred, "I'll be alright good sir, with a bottle o'rum. Ha! That's a lie, haven't had rum in years…" he trailed off not even remembering what he was talking about.

The person sighed, obviously disappointed. "You're drunk, aren't you," he began, "well I suppose I'll take you to your room and let you sleep it off- mon dieux! What happened to your head! Tu es mal! Je suis desole, je-"

"Oh shut yer yap, you frog. Don't you know? Je ne parle pas de Francais, stupid" He cut off the worried voice of the person, who he could now clearly recognize as French. Wait, wasn't his date French? His train of thought was interrupted when he felt himself being lifted up and carried in someone's arms and a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry. I was only trying to help- well forget it. I'll use English if you want me to" The dejected voice told him as he was carried to and laid down on his bed and tucked in. Somehow, the voice made him feel bad and made him feel sorry for snapping at the helpful person who rescued him. He tried to get the words out, but somehow his tongue just felt too heavy and he felt blackness in the corners of his consciousness- and then everything was dark.

Arthur woke with a terrible headache. He cracked his eyes open to see that he was in his bed with his covers tucked up around him, and the curtains drawn. He rolled over and saw that a glass of water and some aspirin sat next to him. He sat up and gulped it down, but something was wrong about it. He felt a nagging in his mind as he tried to remember what happened. He remembered waiting for his date and being worried, and then after that there was some pain or voice, or- he couldn't remember. No matter how hard he tried to grasp the memory, it managed to elude him, like a dream that seems so near, and yet right out of reach.

His date must have not come, he concluded. He had probably set him up like he thought he had. And then he remembered his tea! His kettle had been on, how long had he been napping. He ran downstairs, his knee suspiciously sore, and went into his kitchen. To his surprise, he saw his stove was off, and his kettle next to it, cold and safe, as if _someone had taken it off the stove_. And next to it was- a plate of croissants? How did those get there, he wondered. Surely he didn't make them. He hated French food! Puzzled, he wandered out to his living room to begin his room. And there, there! On his table! Was a bouquet of roses? Now this, he knew, was not his doing. He began shaking, not understanding how they got there.

He walked over to them, and touched one gently. They were soft, and let off a fragrance that had no equal. And as he touched it, he tried to think of who could have put them there. He racked his brain, but he couldn't think of any suitable response. Sighing in defeat, he walked back into his kitchen to begin preparing breakfast, pushing the matter from his brain completely. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. After all, he shouldn't get his hopes up, just from some silly roses. _It's not like anyone actually loves me_, he thought to himself bitterly, quietly.


End file.
